


Douceur

by radstickers



Series: Sauvetage [2]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, and nothing between ame and lena., comtesse!au, mentions of rape and abuse, nothing on screen, slave AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-08
Updated: 2017-11-08
Packaged: 2019-01-30 18:40:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12659175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/radstickers/pseuds/radstickers
Summary: She not sure what she’s looking for, when she gazes out across the lineup. Her eyes pass from one face to the next, finding no life. They were already dead.“A personal servant is what I need,” she answers absently, when she senses the merchant will not leave it be.A companion piece to Sauvetage.





	Douceur

**Author's Note:**

> I have been absolutely in shock at how much people loved Sauvetage, and the number of people asking me to write more has inspired me more than you guys know. I don't want to make other chapters exactly, but instead write oneshots based around the au.
> 
> This was the first one I wanted to write: a reversal. When I first started writing Sauvetage, the first few paragraphs started from Ame's pov, but I thought Lena's was more important. But now that I've written Lena's, Amélie's is extremely interesting, especially because of her backstory.
> 
> Again, the same warnings apply as for Sauvetage:  
> *Slavery  
> *Violence  
> *Rape

The Chateau had grown...lonely.

Years had passed since his death, years of stressful political maneuvering. Years of exhaustion and stress and the undying focus expended to keep herself from being viewed as  _ weak, _ as a grieving widow. 

She would be  _ preyed _ upon if she did. 

And it was not as though she was not already--suitors regularly come to call, promising land and riches and utmost power.

But Amélie Guillard knew  _ better _ than to fall for the thinly veiled seduction. 

There was, of course, the question of if she would ever take a husband again--a question more contested by the lords and ladies beneath Amélie’s jurisdiction rather than of her own heart. 

It was no secret that she  _ loved _ him. The romance had been tender and sweet--a man of lower rank, of less noble birth than her own, but a man of gentleness and adoration. A man whose hand trembled beneath her own in the first steps of courtship, a man who gave of himself in every attempt to  _ protect _ his wife, best he could. 

The court would say she paid for such a marriage dearly--that had she chosen a more  _ proper _ suitor, that not only would she be still wed, but with  _ children. _

After all, a woman of nearly thirty without a single child? Disgraceful.

In their eyes, anyways. 

Keen blue eyes pierce past the court, a slender hand holding a single goblet of mead. 

“I say you find yourself a companion,” comes her voice, the lady Angela Ziegler tipping the mouth of the vessel to her lips. “Take no suitor.”

The monthly court, in presence of the king and queen is one of the few  _ social _ reasons Amélie departs from her manor. Any other reason would be solitary--the lonely countess finds peace astride her horse, riding whether to fell beasts or simply to escape other people. 

Though she would never admit it, however--seeing Angela is a welcome respite from her chateau.

The suggestion pricks something inside her. Amélie had  _ considered _ such a thing in the past--but never as a companion. Perhaps to continue on her name, since she could not pass it naturally--to take a child that looked enough like her that it was  _ plausible _ she had been pregnant when her husband was killed…

But...to raise a child…

“....a companion?”

Those piercing blue eyes sweep up to her face, Angela pausing, as though selecting her words carefully. 

“I’m certain someone would be willing to share your home...or your bed.”

Cool dark eyes gaze out across the table without firm focus.

“...I don’t much care for the idea of making my bed available to just  _ anyone.” _

The blond laughs, peach lips pulling into a wry smile.

“By no means. Just a companion, then. You seem ill taken by the thought of nobility…”

Those eyes finally fall on hers, and she meets them. The normally collected blue eyes soften somewhat.

“...It’s just...I’ve been concerned. You seem locked in your castle. I know...after everything, it must be a comfort to be away from the politics--to live in peace again...but I worry.”

Amélie does not answer her.

* * *

The term buzzes about in her mind.

_ Companion. _

It seems so domestic,  _ tender. _ Though she does not live alone in her chateau, the others that live there are there by profession. Guard staff, kitchen staff, the servants that make the bed...all of it by job and nothing else. And Amélie would not kid herself into thinking they would make good companions. 

The night after court finds her sleepless--a combination of old, painful memories piercing into the darkness and an inconsummate fear. She would relive past traumas, past griefs, even if they were years old. Her only comfort lay in wine these nights, something she took while standing overlooking the river’s edge, watching the moon quietly and slowly climb, then fall…

A companion. 

She supposes the loneliness of those nights, the fear of being  _ hunted, _ might ease. But where would she find one? And how to convince her intentions?

* * *

She thinks of it astride her great hunting mount, returning from the forest after losing a stag. She thinks of it when her eyes fall to a platform dead in the woods, center at a burned out village, hollow from years of abandonment. There, morbidly  _ intact, _ was scaffolding for gallows. The rope had long since been taken, but the wood structure remains, stark against the overgrowth.

Were it possible...she would want someone who knew what it was  _ like. _ To know the pain and helplessness. To know what nightmares steal what little of herself she has, after nightfall…

To save someone from this...may be to save herself.

* * *

She does not like him.

He reeks of sweat, of grease and coin. And he eyes her with blanket lust, polite words veiling the slime beneath. But it is  _ here _ that she knows she might find someone. 

“Not sure what your pleasure is. But I’ve a fine crop here. Should be at least a few that meet her ladyship’s needs.” His thick cockney accent makes her nose turn up, questioning briefly what she’s even  _ doing _ here.

She not sure what she’s looking for, when she gazes out across the lineup. Her eyes pass from one face to the next, finding no life. They were already dead.

“A personal servant is what I need,” she answers absently, when she senses the merchant will not leave it be. 

There’s movement to her right. And her gaze follows.

The countess feels something drop in her lower stomach, her heart squeezing as her eyes fall upon that face.

She’s the only woman in the lineup--the rest men of various ages, strengths, and builds. And it is something about a  _ woman _ that makes the countess go still, to study her more deeply. 

Overgrown dark hair falls over a round face, full lips parting around uncomfortable  _ huffs _ as though standing takes all of her effort. Beneath such a fringe of hair, however, are a set of beautiful amber eyes set beneath long lashes. 

She’s small, hardly rising beyond Amélie’s collarbone at  _ most. _ Slender shoulders and a slim build mark her hardly as a labor slave. Perhaps a former kitchen slave? Perhaps a maid…

It comes as a small surprise to Amélie that her focus is upon a woman. She had not considered the sex of her companion but had, perhaps somewhat blindly, considered that she would take a male companion. But now, standing here in front of a much smaller  _ female _ slave, Amélie finds herself rather taken with the thought of bringing her home.

The girl  _ squirms _ standing there, pulling against those manacles locking her wrists down. Amélie catches that gaze pulling away, as though she had been studied just a blink earlier. But the attention frightens her. She takes a step back, jostling the chains.

Amélie can hear that breath come in a low wheeze, either illness or…

Or…

_ It’s how she wakes in the middle of the night, when the panic seizes any hope of rest. The same wheezing, desperate gasps, when her lungs refuse to fill, when memories of cruel hands and endless pain steal pieces of herself until the morning sun offers her respite... _

She steps closer, glimpsing over the slave’s shoulder to witness the guard’s glare from his corner stool, beady, cold eyes fixed upon the girl. 

But he doesn’t move, and Amélie feels compelled to continue her inspection.

Dark eyes fall to the girl’s thigh as something catches her attention, and she lowers her gloved hand to push back the threadbare cloth from a pale flesh.

A brand. 

She hears the softest gasp when her fingers touch near the mark, and for a moment, she fears that it’s still  _ fresh, _ that she’s caused  _ pain. _

“Ah, my lady, if you’re looking for something more...domestic, the two on the end--”

Amélie fixes the merchant with a glare when he speaks out, nervous and  _ clearly  _ upset to have been found out that his stock contains a  _ runner. _ He silences upon her glare, swallowing nervously.

_ Good. _

So busy she is, enjoying making the merchant squirm that she does not notice the guard closing the distance to the slave, not until the girl  _ wheezes _ tightly, carrying with it a choked half sob.

“Stay  _ still,” _ the guard  _ growls, _ fisting into overgrown hair and twisting that head backwards.

A trembling, fearful whimper escapes that exposed throat, and fury  _ sears _ in her breast, the countess’s jaw setting as she levels the guard with an ice cold stare.

_ "Arrêtez.” _

The order comes in a low growl. The sadism she senses from such an action lights a fire in her soul. She will  _ not _ be leaving without this gasping, trembling slave. She watches the guard shove that head forward, obeying her sharp command but not before inflicting one last jolt of pain. The girl half stumbles, lips parting around a sob of fear and pain.

Punishment, she supposes, for simply  _ existing. _

She slides a hand up that side as though to examine. Her hand comes gently against those ribs, feeling carefully for any bruises, any knotting. It seems they enjoy making her suffer, between the guard and the merchant. 

Amélie feels the soft  _ huff _ of that breath against her face as she gazes down upon her. Her eyes catch a tear breaking loose from welled eyes, to stream tragically down her left cheek.

She must be at the end of her rope.

Amélie rests her hand at the nape of that neck, softly dragging her nails into the hairline. So far back on her head, Amélie guesses fewer blows, fewer instances of being  _ gripped _ there….and she hopes a soft touch might soothe overwhelming terror. 

Smoothly does she take that hair, not in a fist but just enough to press that head forward a bit. In a world of shouted orders, she wonders how often a soft physical  _ suggestion _ would be offered.

The girl offers no resistance. Her head bows with the merest,  _ slightest _ pressure, yielding herself. Heart twisting in her breast, Amélie softly scrapes her fingertips into that scalp, silent confirmation that it’s what she wanted, and it’s enough. The smaller’s response is a gasping, halting little sob--one barely controlled.

There’s a horrible, thick collar about that slender neck, one with crude edges. It’s here that Amélie’s fingers move, to grasp it lightly and lift it.

It’s  _ heavy, _ horribly heavy, to be on that neck, as she takes the weight from those collarbones into her own hands. The girl beneath releases a shaking, trembling breath, something that drives a lance straight through the countess’s chest…

There’s the lowest, tiniest whimper when her she continues to hold it, when her fingers brush over the bruising and scarring on the back of that neck, something that nearly breaks her on the spot.

A plea…

She’s being  _ begged. _

She doesn’t know whether it’s just to keep the collar up for a little while longer, or perhaps the girl in front of her is pleading to be bought…

Amélie holds the collar for a moment longer. It must feel so good, after so long--the freedom of that horrid weight on such a slender neck…

With utmost care does she set it back down, hands sliding up that neck to feel for swelling just below that jaw. 

Despite her thin appearance--(despite  _ everything, _ Amélie thinks,) she seems to be free from infection. No fever, no swelling…

She suddenly becomes aware that those dark, tea-colored eyes are focused on her--starting at her torso and slowly moving upward. She finds herself met by those eyes, big and brown and oh  _ so _ soft.

They search her, and Amélie feels a stab of loss when that head bows, when those eyes squeeze closed.

She knows she maintains a rather severe visage, with the guard nearby, with that slimy,  _ disgusting _ man watching their every move. That pressure, that tension, reminds her of the political knife’s edge, one that forces her to maintain  _ appearance _ at all times, one that demands she act every bit the frigid woman of power that she had to become to  _ survive. _

Amélie exhales quietly, her hands sliding down from that jaw to those shoulders. She hesitates but a moment, but it’s standard fare--and Amélie does  _ not _ want the merchant to do such a thing. She can only imagine how often clothing becomes  _ optional _ for the girl, something completely out of her will.

She was nothing to them but a  _ toy _ \--a broken one. One that  _ runs. _

The cloth is threadbare but clean at least--Amélie pushes it from those shoulders to bare them, then further down  until the fabric bunches up around those bound wrists.

It’s her ribs that Amélie most wants to look at--but a cursory glance at her breasts assures her at least that they’re not visibly  _ bruised. _

Carefully does she pull an arm away from that torso, sliding a gloved hand up that now bare side. She can see bruising lower down, a sure sign of  _ displeasure, _ of a fist or--she shudders to think it--a boot. 

Beneath her hand, she feels the girl begin to  _ shiver, _ those dark eyes locking in place at her own wrists. Her heart twists.

“How old…?” she asks, though the moment those words escape her lips she regrets it, especially when she glances over to see those beady eyes fixed on the girl’s chest.

The fury surges again inside her, and Amélie grits her teeth when he takes a few moments to reply--a few  _ lingering _ moments to let his eyes stay fixed on that girl. And the fury boils over, fueled by  _ shame _ that she enabled such a humiliation.

“Ah...18, my lady.”

She goes very still, the stillness of a cobra before the first  _ strike. _ It’s such a blatant  _ lie _ \--and Amélie doesn’t know why she asked in the  _ first _ place. Of  _ course _ he doesn’t know. His stock over 20 were probably  _ worthless _ to him. Worthless as their beauty was eaten by sick, disgusting men. 

Even noble women were not immune to such torrid thoughts on age and beauty, their worth minimized to husbands and the birth of the next generation. But this is  _ so _ much worse. 

Her lips part as her back straightens, prepared to go to war, to strip this man of all the  _ power _ he craves over her and over the slaves in his keep. Words form on her tongue, but they stop  _ cold _ when she hears the wheezing, suddenly aware the girl is struggling to draw breath.

Amélie’s heart nearly stops. 

Her hands take hold of the cloth to drag back up those arms, to pull back over those breasts. Regret spreads like ice in her veins, that she exposed the girl in such a way, making her yet another object for the merchant’s awful gaze.

She slides her fingers into that hair at the nape of her neck, to massage where it had brought the girl pleasure before. That horrible wheezing continues, those brown eyes wide and staring  _ unseeingly _ at the ground.

“ _ Détends-toi.” _

_ Relax... _

The wheezing softens, and those dark eyes suddenly blink, clearing past whatever awful thoughts had clouded her. And that sigh--the sudden forceful exhale nearly puts tears in Amélie’s eyes, watching those tense shoulders slowly fall.

It’s all she needs--the smallest touch of kindness and the girl seems to be capable of  _ recovery, _ of resilience. Despite everything she’s suffered, she’s  _ strong, _ able to come out of her terror with just a couple words and some physical coaxing.

Relief and warmth spill over in Amélie’s gut, watching those dark lashes flutter with a few blinks, that breathing returning to normal.

But there is the matter of the merchant. Amélie wants to make an  _ example _ of him.

She turns, leveling him in the most chilling,  _ piercing _ gaze she has.

“I see that you are interested in cheating me out of gold.”

She watches the lust that had been bubbling in those eyes evaporate, the  _ disgusting _ look of disappointment that she had reclothed the girl _ fade _ in favor of dealing with a sudden wash of  _ fear _ to see a woman of power now staring  _ down _ upon him.

_ Filthy little man. _

“This one seems  _ far _ older than 18. And--” she spits, eyes flashing with rage, “Don’t tell me. A virgin?”

Oh she’s certain  _ all _ women in such sales are labeled  _ virgins,  _ an awful marker of  _ worth, _ one that’s thrown in  _ her _ face more often enough that any next marriage would be potentially tainted because she’s already slept with a man of lower birth than her own--even if that man was her husband. Such things make no difference to  _ men _ that only enjoy conquering and  _ claiming. _

At least she had more to her name than so called sexual innocence. This poor girl at her back has _ none. _

“W-well,” he tries, “Tracking them from year to year--”

Amélie’s eyes blaze.

“Do you take me for a  _ fool?” _

She turns to stare him down, squaring her shoulders and watching him  _ squirm _ beneath her piercing glare. And  _ oh _ how good does it feel, to reduce a man like this to pure quaking  _ terror. _

“And how much were you planning to charge for her…?”

“...80.”

The price is so absurdly low it nearly crashes her tirade altogether. It  _ breaks _ her for a moment, recalling the  _ two _ prices that had been her own, the first lifted astronomically high by her vindictive father to keep some lowborn knight from courting his daughter, and the second…

_ She remembers reading it, after stumbling back to the chateau, wrists still bleeding, body weak from starvation. The letter addressed to her now late husband. The demand for annulment, the price levied in gold that would line his pocket if he yielded her to another lord. _

_ The price for her freedom, however...was his life. _

Outwardly she betrays no hint of this, fierce eyes glaring down the merchant as she takes a step closer to him. Let him lay in poverty for this, for the lives he willingly ruins. 

“80?” she snaps, eyes glinting. “For a flight risk? For an age far from accurate and for a body I will not receive?”

He’s visibly sweating. It only  _ fuels _ her. 

“I will give you 20, because you  _ know _ it’s what you would get for her off of any  _ other _ market.”

The moment the words leave her mouth she becomes all too aware of the wheezing behind her, guilt slicing through her soul. What  _ terror _ has she caused now, to haggle her price so low? To cut the merchant to shreds is one thing, but to assert, in front of a living soul, that her life isn’t worth a paltry 80 gold coins?

Her cloak alone, resting against her collarbone, was two hundred, and those brown eyes, so vibrant and so  _ terrified _ are worth so much more than  _ that. _

Amélie watches the terror in those eyes as the merchant steps over, yanking at the girl’s collar even while she stumbles back, jolting at the unkind hands near her neck. Helplessness sweeps over her to watch, to watch the vindictive  _ yank  _ when the girl flinches nervously.

Had she the key to that chain, Amélie would have done it herself. 

She watches the merchant jerk her from the safety of the others, to stand alone before them. All the work of soothing that panic is gone, those eyes wide and nearly unseeing, the wheezing louder than before. 

Amélie slams the small sack of coin into the man’s chest when he finally turns to her, swift to move between the girl and this wretched man, to spare her from that gaze.

May she never see him again--for if she  _ does-- _ he’ll find his end from the tip of her crossbow.

But there she stands, trembling and oh so alone, with eyes wide and terror bright. The desire to soothe that fear is  _ strong, _ but she doesn’t want to appear weak. And neither does she want to crowd the girl.

She follows without complaint, falling in step behind Amélie. She loads her into the carriage, watching her sit at the window, staring quietly at it.

The countess watches her, holding her in quiet regard. 

It’s somewhat  _ surprising _ to her the attraction that comes, effortlessly, upon gazing at the girl. It’s been years since she’s been loved--hair overgrown, bruises along her jaw and that godawful collar and manacles…

But she’s beautiful.

To touch her now, with this in mind, feels  _ predatory. _ Amélie cannot fight back the thought that her gentle attraction to the girl is no better than the men that buy her to slake their lusts. 

It stills her hand, from reaching out. Hasn’t she been handled enough? Even a kind touch can still be invasive...

A sigh escapes those lips, that weary head comes to rest near the pane in the carriage. Soft, glazed brown eyes stare listlessly at the dying leaves beyond...

She’s not sure what to say, what to offer. For now she regrets that she has nothing to feed the girl straight away--that they’ll have to wait until arriving at the chateau. And with a body so  _ thin _ , Amélie can hardly bear the thought of waiting so long.

So it is that when they arrive at the chateau, Amélie’s mind is overrun with the desire to feed her charge. She signals to the girl quickly, stepping past the guard staff and making haste to the kitchens, eager to get the girl her first proper meal within  _ safe _ walls.

A halt in step causes Amélie to pause, to  _ turn-- _ in time to see the girl linger near the cellar.

Slender nostrils flare delicately, those eyes falling to the wine cellar. They’ve just put down cured meats there--meats from Amélie’s many hunts. 

Amélie feels her heart twinge, full lips parting when the girl avoids, quickly, her gaze. She must be starved nearly to death.

Those eyes squeeze closed when she reaches for a shoulder, the flinch all the fiercer when her fingers brush up the back of that neck. But when all Amélie does is scrape her fingers warmly along her nape...her eyes slowly open, that face relaxing.

“ _ Allonz-y.” _

It’s not as though she could not speak English--and, judging by the merchant’s tongue, these were a group taken from London. But she speaks in her own tongue, not because she expects the girl to understand, but because it’s a low  _ purr _ of a language--less clumsy than the English she knows.

She follows her soft command with the  _ slightest _ pressure on that neck--just pulling that head in the mildest direction. 

The kitchens are on the other side of the chateau, and Amélie wonders if she shouldn’t just let the girl settle somewhere first and bring the food  _ to _ her.

Without thinking, her pace picks up, eager to get to there, to get the girl a cup of tea and some fresh bread with butter. She’s half imagining what she could offer her--there are still the fruit preserves from earlier in the spring, and perhaps later in the evening, she can pour the girl a glass of wine, something to ease the pain she’s probably in, and make sleep easier…

“Mistress…”

Amélie stops cold, eyes widening at the soft voice, turning to look at her. The moment of being  _ addressed _ makes something within her vibrate like the tightly bound strings on a violin. It’s the first time she’s heard that voice, soaked in English, shy and oh  _ so _ respectful, but...vulnerable.

She knows that to address a superior is to invite  _ pain _ . She’s seen plenty of servants backhanded for interrupting. 

Those wrists move, fingers squeezing--manacles jangling. The girl flinches at the noise, swallowing--and then bowing her head.

“...can…” her voice is so  _ hesitant-- _ “Can...I have some water? Please?”

If it’s dire enough to warrant such a  _ plea _ , it cannot wait until they reach the kitchens. Amélie becomes far too aware of that, when she sees that slender form sway, suddenly fearful that the girl will faint.

She doesn’t have much--lukewarm water in a canteen left over from a hunt she had taken early in the morning. It’s been sitting at her hip this whole time, half drunk…

But she offers it, committing it to bruised, trembling hands. Her own hand comes to rest upon that back, in fear that her balance will give.

“It’s not fresh,” she apologizes. “There’s cooler water in the kitchens.” 

Shyly do those hands unscrew the top. Shier still do those hands lift the canteen to her lips. Amélie watches her take a swallow, then stop.

Those eyes lift to hers, and Amélie feels herself run through. Such a tender face, cherubic and dotted with freckles...but  _ pleading. _

She reaches for the flask, worried the water is sour from having spent so long at her belt.

“Not good? Would you rather something cooler?”

The offer does little but to upset the smaller, making those eyes flash wide with  _ fear. _

“N-no, Miss…”

Teeth worry into chapped lips, as though she’s hunting her words.

“I...I just…”

Those amber eyes glisten…

“I want more…”

Perhaps she underestimated how empty the flask was--but, when she takes hold of it, she finds it still mostly full. The way it was before…

The realization comes over her like a draft in winter. Handed an entire flask and the girl would only take one single sip. Every last swallow was a power game by her sick masters. Amélie could  _ cry. _

She offers a broken little smile, putting the flask back into those hands.

“By all means then. Finish the flask.”

She sees it before it happens--the way those legs crumple beneath that thin form. Quickly does she move to keep the girl from falling to the unforgiving stone beneath, her heart breaking in her breast. She pulls the girl to her own body, a hand resting in the center of her back, holding her  _ close _ .

_ “Ça va aller… _ breathe….”

She feels those tight wheezes against her chest, accented by soft  _ sobs _ as the girl tries to manage her fear. Carefully, she swings her arm beneath that body, to lift her up and carry her to a small sitting room nearby. She lays the girl with the  _ gentleness _ of a lover down upon the plush cushions, putting the flask back in those hands.

“ _ Boire ça… _ drink this.”

She seems to be relaxing, as she takes hold of the flask to drink. Finally she drains the flask, handing it back to Amélie with grateful eyes.

Gently...she reaches for that neck, to push the girl down until she’s laying on her side.

The manacles are not locked, like the collar is--freshly put upon those wrists. The collar might take more work, but those? 

She reaches for them, carefully unhooking the hinge and taking them from those slender wrists. 

She lingers there, to gaze upon the marks….

“Rest for now,” she says softly. “I’ll bring you something to eat in a moment.”

Those glazed eyes gaze at her, blinking twice before they shut. 

* * *

Amélie takes a moment just to watch those eyes flutter closed, to listen to that labored breath ease beneath the soft blanket of sleep. She knows now she has some time, to prepare a meal for her--something light, so as not to upset her stomach or over-gorge her. But enough to slake hunger until the evening…

But she stands there, listening to the very soft sound of the girl’s breathing, and--before she can stop herself, she reaches over, smoothing her fingers through tangled locks to softly sift them off of that face.

She’s bruised--she can see that in the proper light. Her slender jaw has some mottled bruises down at the bottom, surely from the back of someone’s hand. She’s thin, her hair tangled and overgrown, lips chapped and skin dry…

Yet...she is  _ beautiful. _

It hits her again,  _ hard.  _

Amélie had not considered herself subject to noticing things like this--to the curve of that tiny waist, the smoothness of that jaw. She--like nearly  _ all _ women--were taught to value themselves as a facet of a husband, to view other women as competition to his affections. 

Yet after her husband’s death, she found less attraction boiling within herself for men. It became clear that  _ he _ had been painfully rare of his sex, a man that willingly waited the months it took for her to be ready to bed him, well after their wedding night.

He willingly lied that the consummation had taken place that night to avoid possible annulment, waiting with endless patience until she had been comfortable and willing to share herself with him.

All on her own time. 

Amélie knows no other man would have done such a thing. Even the most noble of men have needs, and would expect a wife to fulfill them. Or--he would take his affections elsewhere. 

Even other knights his equal held no interest to the countess--soft and tender though they were, Amélie could see excitement still in their eyes for potential contact. She knew that press would eventually result in demands, regardless of their birth.

And the thought of lying with a man…

Again do her eyes fall upon the girl nestled upon the cushions, feeling an attraction bubbling up again,  _ effortlessly. _

She wonders how often this girl was the outlet for a man’s dissatisfaction with his wife. With little resources, the women slighted by their husbands actions could turn  _ vicious _ to the unprotected, taking out the feelings of helplessness and rejection, of blame for sick behavior onto another victim of it. 

A woman could not directly lash out against her husband...but the slut he chose to fuck? A prime target for her wrath.

Amélie strokes along that neck, smoothing her fingers along the soft baby hairs at her hairline. 

With a sigh, she rises from her observations, to take to the kitchens. 

* * *

She returns to the room a while later, a plate with fresh sliced bread lathered with butter and fruit preserves on top. A large cup of fresh, cool water sits on the tray as well. Something that will refresh--something to give the smaller the energy she needs for her recovery. 

She wonders if the smaller would prefer to take her meal in privacy, away from prying eyes. Perhaps she’ll lead her up to her own bedchambers--where a warm fire and some chairs beside it might be a good place to rest for a few hours more.

So lost she is, in thinking about how comfortable a nap would be in front of a roaring fire--the bearskin rug had often been a place for the countess herself to settle after a long day--that the shock of turning the corner and finding an empty room where her sleeping charge had been no more than thirty minutes ago hits her  _ hard. _

The brand comes to her mind almost immediately--the mark of a  _ runner _ . And with those bruised feet, with a body frail from abuse, Amélie’s heart nearly stops with  _ horror. _

In hope that she had been sought out--and that the girl had simply became lost in the chateau, she searches the rooms, the halls, but turns up nothing. And with the guard staff more focused along the cobblestone road to her castle...the doors are left wide. An easy escape. 

She half runs to the stables, tacking her stallion  _ quickly. _ He prances beneath her hands, eager and  _ nervous _ of her own anxieties. She tugs at the girth tightly before swinging up with practiced grace across his wide back. 

He rocks beneath her, kept at an anxious trot.

There’s a major bridge across the river, and his hooves clack loudly against the cobblestone. Dark eyes scan the river’s edge, a sudden  _ terror _ that a misstep--or a faint--might have brought the girl to drown in the cold water…

There’s no disturbance in the bank, however, and a small hunting path with soil soft from repeatedly dug hooves yields bare footprints.

Amélie regrets taking her time in making such a meal--the thought that the girl would simply sleep for an hour or two had fueled her to leave her be, giving her  _ plenty _ of time to get far away from the chateau, from warmth and food…

She follows those footprints into the forest, feeling the cold seep past her jacket. She can only imagine that threadbare cloth doing nothing for her…

* * *

The sun is setting and she’s lost the trail. Panic bubbles in Amélie’s breast to think of it--she, the master hunter losing her slave in the forest.

She’s not sure the girl would survive the few hours--let alone an entire night. The cold mist would be deadly. And it’s already been hours…

Cold fingers grip both mane and reins, sharp eyes still scanning the darkening forest for any sign of the lost. 

Then... _ there. _

She hears the stumbling pace before she sees her--the small figure moving slightly downhill. That head is bowed, body crumpled. But moving. 

_ Alive. _

She feels a whirlwind of emotion, her chest growing tight when those eyes gaze up at her.

Those eyes are  _ broken, _ utterly haunted, tears staining both cheeks. The face of someone preparing herself for  _ pain _ \--for death.

She kicks loose from the saddle, swinging a leg over the horse and landing into the brush and dirt below. 

“Come  _ here." _

Her voice is sharper than intended, nearly  _ harsh,  _ bred from panic at seeing the lines of blood from a cut in the girl’s scalp--to the horrible scrape on her arm. The scent of blood would attract wolves, she knows. And she fears the girl will bolt, furthering the injuries and exhaustion.

The girl stumbles at her words, stepping closer but those legs buckle and she falls to scraped knees with head bowed.

“I’m so sorry, Mistress,” comes that trembling voice, “I...I was trying to come back…”

Amélie feels her heart twist agonizingly at those words. It is not the forest she fears, but  _ Amélie. _

And why shouldn’t she? She’s earned a brand as a runner, and Amélie knows how they hunt down slaves. Cruel hunting dogs would have pinned her in place, growling and biting. And that...was only the beginning.

A beating was common enough, but  _ imaginative _ masters would do more, she knows. Slaves dragged behind horses, perhaps left without food or water. The brand at the girl’s thigh might have encouraged other uses for a branding iron. After all, a slave’s punishment could be a source of  _ amusement. _

There was no reason for the girl to trust. None at all. 

Those words, however,  _ surprise _ the countess. It matters very little to her if the girl speaks the truth about trying to return. Freedom would be hers to do with as she pleased. If the chateau was distasteful to a girl who had only ever known an owner’s cruelty, then Amélie would not see her confined to the walls with someone who  _ purchased _ her. It would have to wait, until that body had properly recovered. Until Amélie was certain she would not simply die of exhaustion, succumbing to years of cruelty…

But that the girl says it at all--whether an attempt to mitigate  _ punishment _ or--(dare Amélie believe it?) that the girl genuinely was trying to find her way back--makes something inside Amélie break to pieces. 

Slowly does she step closer, to lips nearly blue with cold, to that body striped with blood, with dirt.

“Please, I’m sorry!” comes that gasping voice, those eyes lifting slightly to try to see her face. Those eyes, so wide, so  _ haunted, _ rip at her very soul, and Amélie becomes  _ painfully _ aware that she would do anything to save her. Anything to ease her pain…

“Please don’t send me back…”

The words still Amélie for a moment. Is it then, not the countess she fears most? She remembers that leering  _ stare, _ those awful, cruel eyes and the guard that would stand behind her, lying in wait like a wolf ready to strike her down.

Is it possible then, that the girl sees her as some salvation to this?

The thought gives her courage.

The desire to wrap the girl in her arms is overwhelming, at at the slightest  _ hint _ that she may not be the girl’s biggest fear, Amélie reaches for the small clasp over her breast keeping her cloak firmly situated there. Cold as it was, the girl has far more need of it. Perhaps such a gesture of goodwill can soothe the terror in those eyes.

But the noise ignites  _ more _ terror, the girl staggering back.

“Please!” she begs, eyes wide with tears. “I’m sorry, please don’t do this!”

The sudden stumble away from her makes Amélie fearful she’ll  _ bolt _ \--and she moves quickly, dropping to her knees and snapping loose her cloak, half to catch the girl and to assure  _ warmth. _

Once swallowed in the rich cloth, Amélie works to clasp it closed around that slender body, careful to keep her fingers off of that body, so that the girl does not think she’s trying to  _ hurt _ her. The terror in those eyes fades in favor of confusion, and it’s then that Amélie reaches for that jaw, to smooth the backs of her fingers along the mottled bruising there.

Her skin feels like ice, even beneath her glove.

When that body goes a bit limp, she pulls the girl into her arms, embracing that exhausted body.

“You’re so  _ cold…” _ she remarks, her voice thick with emotion. The girl’s body begins to shiver, nearly  _ uncontrollably _ against the warmth of another, and Amélie squeezes her tight.

She goes, unresisting--her body so limp, as though she wants to  _ melt _ into the embrace.  There is still yet a thread of tension in that frame, however--a response of fear, the terror that such a thing is not  _ acceptable. _ A trap perhaps...

But the air is cold and growing colder still. Amélie presses her mouth into that hair, running a hand up and down that back to encourage that body to  _ warm. _

“You’ll catch your death out here…”

Her fears find their way into her voice, to imagine the girl collapsed and dead from the cold, or washed up drowned on the riverbank. She holds her close to assure herself that the girl is now  _ safe _ from such a fate, fighting the temptation to cover the crown of her head in kisses.

A hand lifts, somewhat hesitantly, to rest against Amélie’s breast. She can feel how ice cold those fingers are through the fabric of her vest, and she raises her own gloved hand to softly squeeze over those fingers…

The girl goes limp, and for a moment, Amélie worries she’s passed out. But those eyes are still open, that body shivering beneath her hold. 

She doesn’t want to push her, so soon after such an awful scare, and so they stay like that--Amélie embracing the smaller with guardian fervor. 

But...it’s cold. It’s cold and this girl  _ needs _ warmth, needs food...needs rest.

Slowly...hesitantly...does she stand, to draw that frame to her own to keep the girl from crumpling. 

Amélie is no stranger to hauling weight to the back of her horse--she’s dragged stags twice times her weight onto her stallion’s back. 

But the girl she takes such painfully attentive care with, to press her chest to the saddle and gently lift her legs. She watches the girl crawl slowly into place, her weight sinking into the saddle…

Amélie takes a moment to tuck the cloak further about those shoulders, watching that head hang low in exhaustion.

She arches, swinging up carefully behind the girl. A heat rushes down her own body when her hips slide in place against the smaller’s, another little jolt when her hand brushes those breasts to hold the girl against her body.

_ Forgive me, _ she thinks, squeezing her eyes shut as she reaches for the reins.  _ I don’t mean to be like them… _

But if the girl minds, she does not show it--that head turning slightly to rest to her collarbone, tucked beneath her jaw, back supported by Amélie’s arm…

They can only manage a walk in the thick brush, and the normally flighty stallion seems...sedate, as though he understands. He walks with a smooth stride, careful to lift his hooves over fallen logs to avoid jostling his riders. 

The girl drifts in her arms, her body going limp when the stallion’s hooves find a familiar path once more, when he eases into a rocking canter. The spires of the chateau stand out against the misty, darkening sky, and Amélie holds that body against her own a bit  _ tighter. _

She feels that breath paint across her collarbone, seeping past the linen, beneath the cravat bound about her throat. It’s intimate...it’s  _ gentle. _ Perhaps the girl has no choice but to trust, but it  _ feels _ willing, at least, that body curled unresisting against her own.

Amélie is careful, when she dismounts--thankful the girl rouses enough to hold her body up. She reaches for her--gently taking the girl’s weight onto herself and drawing her from the saddle…

At first she lets the girl walk--but when the half dizzy pace is slow, and Amélie fears it will end with her collapsing, she moves to slide her arms beneath her, to carry the girl bridal style up to her chambers.

Slowly does she set that weak frame down upon the bearskin rug, watching those knees fold like a newborn fawn’s.

Amélie earns that tired gaze when she moves to prod the dying embers of the fire, placing a dry log above the glow and stoking until it lights.

The flame lights those eyes up, making them nearly amber in the low light. That slender body shivers beneath her cloak, but those eyes  _ captivate _ her, gazing upon her, large and soft and  _ gorgeous... _

They go half lidded, then closed with a sigh. That head bows--nearly falling, exhaustion taking its awful toll. She doesn’t pass out, still kept half erect on her elbows, but Amélie can tell her focus is gone for now. 

Even at her most broken, she’s beautiful, that soft hair falling over that downturned face. How much  _ more _ beautiful will she be, when those cheeks are pink again, skin softened from proper care, frame filled out with rich meals?

And how much more beautiful, she thinks, when she earns that first smile, when those eyes  _ brighten _ to see her rather than shrink in fear?

It’s a long ways off. There’s no guarantee. Painful though it might be, Amélie accepts that the girl may never like her much at all. 

She is, after all, a  _ mistress. _ An  _ owner. _

Amélie rises from the fire and the one warmed by it. Her fingers close around the old handle of a well loved kettle. Carefully, ritualistically, she fills it with water. A small tin yields her tea leaves, sprinkled directly into the water. 

But it’s not quite enough, she thinks, gazing upon that broken form trembling in front of the revived fire. Amélie reaches for a small jar to take some sprigs of lavender as well, bruising the flowers to yield their scent. It would be good for those nerves, for those trembling, terrified nerves. She thinks to offer alcohol, either gently, in the form of wine, or more directly in the form of something stronger like cognac. But the girl is barely conscious as it is, and the idea of putting something to those lips without her being aware of what it will do to her...it doesn’t seem right. 

But tea…

There’s almost something  _ loving _ about it, a hot drink to warm a chilled body. And the act of adding to it almost feels like touching her in a way.

Those shivers seem to slow, she notices, while breaking up flowers of chamomile. She wonders how long it would be before that frame simply collapsed to the soft fur beneath her. Perhaps she only stays upright because she hasn’t been given permission to pass out.

It’s an awful thought.

When the countess goes to put the kettle in the fire, she hears the girl’s soft whimper, long lashes fluttering as those eyes focus for a moment.

They only refocus when the kettle whistles, watching Amélie’s hands as she pours the tea into a small cup.

Slowly...a bit  _ hesitantly... _ does Amélie slowly sink to her knees beside the girl, coming up against her side to gage warmth...but also just for the familial  _ closeness _ that she now craves. 

_ "Tu as assez chaud?” _

She wants to teach the smaller her own tongue. Maybe some separation from the language of  _ orders, _ even if it is her own language. Perhaps it might feel like an escape, a  _ secret _ spoken only for her.

Slowly, she reaches for that uninjured arm, to carefully rub it as though warming soft flesh…

Something sparks in those amber eyes, something close to a fragile, tender  _ curiosity _ . A recognition passes through that expression as well, when Amélie’s hand rubs her arm--and though she doesn’t answer, Amélie feels a sudden warmth pool in her stomach. She understood.

The answer is another shiver, however--something that melts Amélie’s heart all the way through. She cannot fully stop herself from responding--from pressing her lips into that rain dampened hair and kissing into her temple--her heart twisting with approval, with  _ pride. _

For a moment she fears the touch to be too much--but just before she pulls away, she feels that head lean against the kiss--basking in it much as she’s spent the last fifteen minutes or so basking in the heat of the fire.

The thought of this girl being starved for  _ affection-- _ and being the one to give her these small gestures, of forehead kisses, of hand squeezes and soft, tender hugs...it’s enough to give her courage to continue, to try more things to see if she’ll respond...

Carefully does she reach past that slender body, to take that small cup of tea. Her free hand reaches with infinite gentleness to lift the girl’s wrist--her own lips parting as she sees the old scars, and the fresh bruising from cruel manacles--and gently places the warm, steaming cup in it. 

But there’s weakness, in those hands. They tremble, even in her own--and Amélie is careful to wrap her fingers around that hand, cupping it.

She drags her thumb softly over those bruised knuckles, watching that face turn down to see what’s in the cup. Dark lashes blink, slender nostrils flaring to inhale the soothing smell of lavender…

The girl lifts her hand and Amélie follows, keeping her own beneath just in case she loses grip. But she doesn’t...and those amber eyes flood with tears.

_ You’ve made tea for so many people, haven’t you?  _ she thinks, lifting one hand from the cup to work out stray leaves and burrs tangled in that overgrown hair.  _ Is this the first cup anyone’s made for you? _

Amélie takes her time, carefully working out the last of the nasty burrs before her fingers rest softly on the nape of that neck, dragging against her scalp in that slow, pleasing little scratch. 

And now she seems all the more  _ receptive _ to such a touch, her sips pausing, those eyes fluttering closed in a more expressive show of  _ bliss. _

_ Does that feel good, chérie…? _

Her fingers slide down, smoothing along those soft hairs just on the edge of that hairline. But it’s when her fingers venture further that she feels it, that she  _ remembers _ the collar. That awful, far too heavy collar weighing that neck down...the edges sharp, the weight unyielding. Amélie feels something spur to life within her veins, a fury at the collar’s very  _ existence. _

She lifts it, careful as always with that bruised throat. Steadily does she move, to work at the rusted hinge, to slide the old pin loose and carefully open it…

It  _ creaks, _ a noise deafening in the quiet after such a stressful day,  _ screaming _ as the hinge finally pops open.

Amélie can see the girl’s breath freeze, her heart twisting painfully when those eyes fall to the collar now set upon the fur rug. Eyes wide with shock, flooding with tears that after only a moment come streaming down those cheeks…

The girl shifts her weight, a bruised hand coming up amid choked sobs, feeling her own skin now bared from the collar. Trembling fingers trace the lines of abuse, of  _ anguish. _

Amélie brings her own steady hand to match, her gloved fingers sliding carefully along that jaw. She feels the girl pause in her breath at such a touch.

It stays held, when Amélie’s fingers sweep softly over her pulse, to feel it quicken to rise against her fingers. But when it stays locked in that throat for too long, Amélie speaks.

“Breathe…” she reminds softly, heart twisting painfully when--as breath returns, sobs follow--deep and  _ painful _ sobs, all of the emotion she’s never been permitted to express. And whether it’s from being at a breaking point...or simply trusting her new mistress enough to let go...Amélie is grateful she’s not trying to bottle it up any longer.

Those amber eyes, glazed and vibrant from tears, slowly lift, accompanying that weak body in a  _ turn. _ Amélie realizes with a start that she wants to  _ see _ her, turning a weak and tired body in hopes of doing so.

She does...so very  _ much _ hope those eyes find something worth trusting in, as they slowly climb up her form. She hopes that--unlike that awful room, when she had first chosen her, that the girl would find something worth a gaze…

Amélie’s gaze had been upon that throat--avoiding at first direct eye contact in hopes that it would not  _ startle _ the poor girl. But when that gaze fails to fall, Amélie slowly lets herself fall into those amber eyes….

The look she receives is  _ soft _ \--trusting. Beautiful amber eyes, still a touch  _ shy,  _ only peer gently into her own, searching her deeply. Unlike the market, those eyes do not shy away from her own once fixed there. Whatever scared her then...does not frighten her now.

Amélie feels her heart  _ squeeze _ at the look, those soft amber eyes tender with curiosity, with  _ awe. _

The countess lifts a gloved hand to that jaw, to slide a thumb amid the falling tears. Her heart nearly  _ bursts _ when that nose turns towards her palm, soaking up the affection with no hesitance.

It makes Amélie nearly  _ dizzy _ with a rush of warmth.

Those eyes glaze a bit, head falling limp, and the countess knows their time is short, before that body gives in to the rest it desperately needs. And there is still the matter of the dirt and blood from her ordeal.

It is not out of a desire to have a clean slave that Amélie moves past the girl to start the bath, but a desire to  _ soothe. _ A hot bath would be good, not just for a weak body, but for the girl’s soul. Let her know the pleasure of hot water, of being  _ bathed _ as Amélie is sure she’s done for others. 

The water pours, and Amélie lays her wrist beneath it, letting the hot water strike sensitive skin. The last thing she’d ever want is to lay the girl in the water, to see those eyes flash open with  _ pain. _

She crushes more lavender, more chamomile into the water--hoping the scent would calm any lingering fears.

The girl is where she left her--hung delicately between consciousness and unconsciousness. She steps over to her, smoothing her fingers along the back of that neck and coaxing loose her cloak from those shoulders.

From there, the now dirty rags she was purchased in--Amélie does her best to strip them without ripping them--such a thing, she knows, might incur old memories. Bad ones…

But the girl goes willingly,  _ trustingly-- _ lifting her arms when Amélie grasps the threadbare cloth at her waist to make the process  _ easier. _ She’s too weak to help any further, but the submission, both in yielding her body and in following to the bathroom demonstrates a  _ trust _ that makes the countess  _ dizzy. _

Amélie watches the girl lay onto her back as she strips her gloves, reaching to catch that neck in her fingers so the girl doesn’t have to fight not to dip beneath the hot water…

Her thumb sweeps across that face, reaching for soap to work into those soft, dark locks. Her nails scratch gently into that scalp, to remind her that she is safe, that she can relax….

Her hair is surprisingly silky, in the water--against her bare fingers. It’s smooth and so  _ soft, _ and Amélie takes her time, perhaps selfishly, to cleanse that hair. The girl in her hands seems all but spent, only  _ barely _ conscious when the countess turns to a small cloth, to lather it with soap and delicately move along that face, to wash the dirt and blood away…

Those tired eyes fall to her wrists as Amélie works the cloth down that body. Amélie feels something clench in her heart, knowing what’s caught the girl’s attention.

Her scars.

It’s been years--years since that horrible event. Years since cruel hands were laid upon her, years since she was held up in some nobleman’s cellar, bound in shackles. Years since she snapped against them until her wrists bled--years since she spat in his face and earned the back of his hand.

And years...since Gérard gave his life to free her. 

Her leather gloves served to hide the marks from view--from others as well as herself. 

But those eyes seem transfixed upon the old scars, moving down along each one, studying the old raised marks left by shackles. 

Slowly, the girl lifts her own wrist, to look at her  _ own _ marks. They would one day fade to resemble the ones her mistress bears. 

A sense of unity settles over them, something Amélie can feel carving into her heart. She watches those eyes blink softly, lifting to her face. They soften, and Amélie senses a  _ tenderness _ in that gaze. 

In reply, the countess dips the cloth back into the bathwater, to bring back against that bruised throat, just to  _ indulge  _ the smaller, to watch those eyes close, to watch that mouth go slack...

To watch her  _ yield _ herself softly to the touch.

They linger this way, a precious reprieve from the pain and fear they both suffered earlier in the day, Amélie feeling every last wall she’s built crumble, suddenly and acutely aware of the rhythm of that soft breath, of the way those eyes are now relaxed and half lidded at the kind touch.

They both need this, she knows. 

But the girl’s endurance is fading into nothing. Those half lidded eyes are nearly closed after only a few minutes more. And the bed calls to the countess as well, exhaustion coming like a blanket over her.

From the tub, Amélie draws the now barely conscious girl, to wrap her in a warm linen to keep the cold off of her skin. She leads her back out to the fire, to warm herself in the absence of the water, letting her have her privacy, her silence…

Amélie goes to fetch a long undershirt, fingers pausing on the material. 

She wants the girl to sleep in her bed with her.

It is...of course, easy to do so. A single order and her will would be carried out. But that’s not what she wants. She wants her bed to be a choice--one easily replaced by another bed--with privacy the girl deserves. She struggles, wondering how to voice her desire.

With that head bowed low--hair dripping quietly onto the bearskin rug while that slender body dries by the fire, Amélie wonders if she’ll simply fall asleep then and there.

She makes a pathetic picture, but a  _ tender _ one--one that squeezes Amélie’s heart until it’s ready to  _ burst. _

Her lips part--a question escaping them that she had deeply regretted not asking sooner.

“What are you called?”

A name. A name to have called into the dead of the forest. Her fear had come, when she had not seen the girl in _ hours _ that she would have nothing to have carved into a gravestone.

That little body twitches a bit, that head lifting to gaze at her--those tired amber eyes falling first to the cloth in her hands in question. She looks a bit... _ startled _ \--it being the first thing spoken to her after her bath.

Amélie continues, before her words can be misconstrued as a setup for cruel punishment.

“I never asked. And I would not bother asking the merchant. I doubt he troubled himself to learn.”

She apologizes--she never asked. She finds herself with more in common with the merchant, not bothering to ask--neglecting,  _ careless _ with such a precious commodity as a human soul…

Those amber eyes glimpse hers before gazing down near her collarbone--a sign of  _ attentiveness _ but not the challenge of eye contact. Amélie’s heart sinks, knowing that the training to see herself as less than will carry on for years to come.

But those lips part, a voice, trembling and weak, sounding out in the quiet room.

“L-Lena, Miss…”

Those eyes turn down. Amélie wonders if she’s been asked this before, only for the name to be forgotten, traded instead for  _ girl _ or a sharp  _ you. _

“Lena…”

She tastes it on her own tongue--it’s a  _ beautiful _ name, one that breathes light and brightness. Perhaps a harkening to Greek mythology, or--perhaps, a soft name given to a loved baby.  _ Lena. _

Those amber eyes, reflective of the light she’s named for, lift to hers--perhaps in surprise to hear her name. A coldness spears through Amélie, a realization that the name of a slave is an oft forgotten facet. Perhaps this is the first time in years she’s heard it spoken.

_ Then I will speak it often. _

They hang in such a balance for several moments, those amber eyes softening and  _ relaxing, _ a trust settling between them.

Amélie shifts her weight, reminded of  _ why _ she left and returned in the first place--the clothing over her right arm. She begins to step forward, but--realizing she has an opportunity to speak that name again, she takes it.

“Lena.”

This she offers as a small warning, a transition from silence to action. Carefully, she moves to kneel before her, showing her the shirt so as not to cause alarm when she reaches gingerly for the now wet cloth draped over those slender shoulders. Lena doesn’t offer any resistance when her fingers softly push the cloth off those shoulders, and Amélie desperately hopes it comes from trust rather than capitulation. 

But those eyes watch her, not with fear, but curiosity. A good sign...

The shirt she brought will be soft on sensitive skin, and  _ modest. _ Amélie tries her best not to focus on the feeling of that skin beneath her hand as she bunches the shirt up to push over that head, taking slender arms to tug through half sleeves. The accidental brushes of her fingers over those breasts, however, makes the countess flinch back for fear of being viewed as  _ predatory,  _ fingers pausing briefly in guilt of her own sin.

But those eyes glimpse softly up at her, no such traumatized hollowness of someone fearing the filthiness of such an assault. Just that same curiosity...

It hangs off of her right shoulder, a look both vulnerable and deeply  _ endearing. _

The peace lasts for a few moments, those amber eyes gazing into hers, soft and gentle and, for now-- out of pain.

But all at once they sharpen, that head whipping around, lips parted and eyes suddenly wide. Amélie wonders if she hears something, some old trigger of a memory.

Those eyes land on something, Amélie following her gaze, but not understanding. That body seems to relax, but shifts--as though she’s working on asking a question.

That voice comes soft, a few moments later. Amélie feels her heart speared through--finding herself hanging on that soft inhale.

“...Miss…”

The voice comes in an already softly  _ pleading _ tone. Amélie’s heart clenches--to be addressed by Lena this way stills her. That small whisper could bring to a halt anything she might be doing, she realizes there, her heart squeezing at the trust it takes for a slave to address her mistress.

After all...servants spoke little. Slaves...even less. 

Lena hesitates a moment, chewing on her request. And then it comes.

“...May...may I borrow your cloak for the night?”

The cloak. The  _ cloak. _ Lena wants the  _ cloak-- _ the one still a little damp from the rain but the one she had been rescued in. Tears well in Amélie’s eyes at the tenderness of such a plea--the desire to be placed back in the warmth that had  _ saved _ her. 

Amélie realizes she hasn’t answered--and worse, that Lena’s expression is darkening in  _ fear. _

“Of course.”

That head lifts a bit in confusion, as Amélie moves to stand, to collect the cloak from the back of one of the sitting chairs. Smoothly does she move, to rest it over those slender shoulders and tug it close about that neck.

Swallowed up in it again, Lena looks  _ achingly _ endearing, with those large, soft brown eyes, with hair damp from her bath. She looks  _ warm. _

“I’ll have one made for you, if you like it so much.”

When those eyes cast low--when those shoulders bunch beneath the still damp cloth, Amélie feels her soul catch. 

“Or...is it just this one you like, Lena…?”

Those eyes lift, dark and deep and  _ tender, _ those lashes slowly fluttering shut when Amélie brushes her thumb along that jaw. That nose dips down, angled at her palm--perhaps a shy nuzzle?

“It...it feels safe,” comes that answer in heartbreaking clarity.  _ Safe. _

She’s about ready to kneel back down in front of Lena, to enjoy the softness of the bearskin rug and the warmth of the fire when she sees those hands press to the ground, that slim body rising. That slender hand grips the front of the cloak, her one given possession and Amélie knows--without any regret--that it now belongs to Lena. Especially when it seems to give her so much peace…

Amélie realizes those eyes are darkening, lips parting around something. 

“...where is it that you want me to go for the night, Miss?”

Guilt gnaws at the countess when she realizes that--again, she’s driven Lena so far as to beg for what she needs. She should have provided a place of rest well before now, or at least worked through the mental hurdle of figuring out how, exactly, to request Lena’s presence in bed without it being an order. 

Those eyes fall to the ground, the countess swallowing past her own nervousness.

“I can, of course, find you your own room,” she begins, her voice a bit more  _ vulnerable _ . Her desire to be kept company in the dead of night, when the nightmares would wage war against what little peace she had left is now held in the balance. She would desire nothing less than to be beside  _ Lena. _

But it  _ cannot _ be a command. It cannot resemble one. It would mean nothing if her companion were only doing it in effort to please her. 

“...but…”

Her plea comes softly, spoken a bit too  _ quickly, _ a touch too eager. 

“But...I would offer to share my bed. That way you will not wake disoriented and run…”

Amélie winces at her own words, finding them  _ restrictive, _ Is her bed then a prison for errant, runaway slaves?

“....and I will know you are warm enough, and that if you need anything during the night, I can help…”

She finally looks up--finding, in those amber eyes  _ tears-- _ a sob catching in that slender breast before--of all things--that head comes to tuck beneath her own. 

Tears well in the countess’s own eyes when she feels that head nod. 

It is not a  _ cowed _ response. It’s a grateful one, and Amélie herself could not be more grateful for it. The permission now to think of such a thing floods past hesitation. Thoughts of Lena feeling soft sheets against her skin, of being held deep within the blankets against the countess’s chest. About feeling the safety and warmth of another person pressed against her. 

Her arms come around that slender body, head turning to press her cheek to the crown of that head. When that body melts against her own, Amélie sighs out--tears spilling loose to be soaked into silky brown locks. 

They part from one another to walk to Amélie’s bedroom, piled high with furs, with soft linen sheets and pillows enough for three. 

Lena stares at the bed, watching Amélie’s hands tug the covers back. Softly does she gesture for the girl to get in, watching with tender eyes when Lena curls against the edge, making herself as small as possible.

Amélie hesitates a moment, unclasping her jacket, then sliding loose the necktie and vest until all she’s left in is the long linen shirt once tucked into trousers. She moves carefully to push back the covers, to slide in  _ carefully. _

Amélie stares at that back, reaching forward to slide her arm around that slender body.

She waits--for tension, for fear, for resistance, but when she finds none, she carefully draws that body more into the center of the bed, feeling her thighs slide beneath Lena’s, a rush of warmth spilling low…

That body relaxes, head dipping back, a low sigh escaping those lips.

Any distance closes between them, as Amélie pushes the covers over them both and basks in the warmth, in the  _ heat. _

The countess becomes intimately acquainted with the sound of those small, soft breaths--the feeling of that heart beating so close to her own. The darkness makes such senses all the shaper, Amélie aware of the smell of Lena’s skin beneath the fragrance of the soap she’s just been bathed with.

Her eyes grow heavy, sleep like a siren song to her.

“....Thank you…”

The voice is so quiet she might have missed it, the tender offer of  _ gratitude. _ Tears spill down the countess’s cheeks as she pulls that body to her own, tighter-- _ closer. _

She answers it softly, though she wonders if Lena hears it at all.

_ “Merci…” _

  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
